Merry, it was soon demonstrated, was a faster runner than Guffey, for at every stride he was gaining upon him. It was presently evident, too, that Merry was also a better jumper.
Ahead of Guffey lay an eight-foot irrigation ditch, filled to the brim with flowing water. The Gold Hill coach attempted to take it at a leap, but he took off too soon; then, on top of that, his foot slipped as he sprang into the air. It happened, therefore, that instead of landing safely on the opposite bank, he dropped squarely into the water.
For a moment he was under the surface, and all that was to be seen was his cap, floating away with the sluggish tide. Frank jumped the ditch and stood waiting on the opposite bank.
Guffey bobbed up, thoroughly drenched, and sputtering. Seeing Merriwell waiting for him, he turned to reach the other bank. To his astonishment—and somewhat to Merriwell’s, as well—Hawkins, the deputy sheriff, appeared abruptly and headed him off in that direction.
“What are you chumps trying to do?” sputtered Guffey.
“Tryin’ to git hands on you, Guffey,” answered Hawkins, with a grin. “If you think you’ve been in long enough, why not come out? Jumpin’ sand hills! What’s the matter with your hair?”
This was a question which Frank had been asking himself. The water had played sad pranks with Guffey’s jet-black hair. In spots the black had all run out of it, and had streaked his pale face, leaving a tow color in place of the dark hue that had previously distinguished the looks.
With a yell of consternation, Guffey put up his hands to his face and then withdrew them and looked at his smudged fingers.
“It ain’t right for a young feller to go dyin’ his hair that-a-way,” said Hawkins. “Come on out. I shouldn’t think it would be comfortable, stayin’ in there too long.”
“I’ll come out,” said Guffey savagely, “but you can’t arrest me for taking Merriwell’s money.”